Kidnapping
by shaemichelle
Summary: Fraser's sentry duty begins normally—he stands for hours, tourists, Chicago natives and children constantly laughing or interacting with him. He thought this man was just another person out for a reaction. He couldn't have been more wrong.
1. Taken

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributers, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from this story, no infringment is intended.)**

* * *

Fraser stood sentry in front of the Consulate, a blonde woman pressed up against his side while one of her girlfriend's took her picture, one of the many tourists or Chicago natives amused by him daily.

"Oh, my god, he's so cute!" one of them gushed. Fraser hoped he wasn't blushing. He always found women's feeling towards him very embarrassing, They constantly fell over him and it was something he couldn't really figure it out. He didn't seem to have any outstanding features, or at least not ones he himself would look for, physically, in a man. And it wasn't as though he tried to lead the women on or he hoped he didn't.

Fraser continued to stand, motionless. He listened for the gong of the clocks he stood. He knew it was the last hour of his shift and he approximated he had a mere twenty minutes left. The final stretch.

"Hey," a thick-set man all but yelled at him. "Hey!" he repeated, louder, close enough Fraser could feel spit fly onto his cheek. Fraser sighed mentally. He didn't mind the photos or the small children asking him questions about Canada, but the people who would try to provoke him were just plain annoying. Sure, he looked silly standing here, but he didn't think people could be rude enough to attempt to get a man fired. If Ray saw them he'd threaten to arrest them or something. Fraser smiled internally. Ray was the best friend he'd ever have, even just thinking about him made the thick-set man's shouting and arm waving more ignorable. The man slipped his hand into a pocket and raised his hand, placing a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

"Alright, boys, he's real dedicated," he said into the talkie. "I doubt he'll put up a fight."

Oh dear, Fraser thought, wondering what exactly he'd gotten into. Before he could debate whether or not to move (and risk being fired or shipped back to Canada), he was struck with a tire iron by the thickset man. The iron swung under the brim of his Stetson, knocking it off as Fraser fell. That seemed to end his second-long debate; he fell to the ground, clutching his forehead where blood spilled from his hairline, trying to see past stars. For a moment, all he could think was the pain ripping thru his head, couldn't make the one clear part of his mind move past the tearing agony. The thick-set man raised the iron to strike him again and Fraser hooked his adversary's foot with a boot, knocking him to his feet as a windowless van pulled up outside the Consulate with a screech.

A few other men hopped out of the van, and one pulled a gun out. The other men stepped aside to give the blond a clear shot. The blond man took aim and fired. Fraser cried out as the bullet ripped at his leg, as the first attacker halted the other two men who, having hoisted Fraser to shaky feet by his shoulders, were preparing to toss him into the van. The thick-set man cracked his fingers around a set of brass knuckles, his tire iron forgotten on the ground. He wound up, fist connecting with Fraser's nose, spraying red.

"Would you hurry up, Vince?" the man with the gun snapped. "The Canadians inside aren't stupid enough to ignore a gunshot. Let's go before they come out."

Fraser tried to pull away, he knew this neighbourhood well and was sure, even with a gunshot wound and his sight obscured by blood, he could find a hidden alley to seek refuge in. He couldn't hide within the Consulate, the men would follow him. He'd have to lead them away from the other RCMP members and diplomats.

The thickset man struck his face once more, and Fraser lost a grip on consciousness. He could see black spots in his vision slowly expanding, threatening to swallow him. He was tossed roughly into the van as the Consulate doors burst open and Constable Turnbull yelled something about arrest. The men fired towards him with handguns, hopping into the van as it sped off. The door slammed and the darkness in the van blanketed him. His last thoughts prayed, to whatever god was out there, that he would see his wolf and his Ray before he was killed by these men. With that thought, he fell out of awareness.

A/N: This is a prolougue of sorts, originally written as a chapter two for another DS story. I've decided I like this as a solo peice, and the original chapter one may be posted sometime in the future. A chapter two of this story will follow, hopefully soon. It will also be longer. Please review and add to your alerts, I love having feedback and steady readers. It means a lot to me, and if you're a writer, I'm certain it does to you as well.


	2. Awake

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributers, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from this story, no infringment is intended.)**

* * *

Ray glanced at his watch. Nearly five. Almost time to pick up Fraser. He wondered if Fraser was on phone duty or sentry duty. He was wearing red, not brown today, so it appeared he would be outside the Consulate. He stood, dropping his pen and giving up his paperwork for a while.

"Vecchio!" Lieutenant called. Ray swung his head around, looking to Welsh. "My office." Ray sighed, walking over.

"Hello, Lieutenant. Did I mention I'm late to pick up the Mountie?" he said, shutting the door with his foot. He just wanted out of here, not to be lecture for who knows what, He hadn't broken in to any homes or shot anyone today. The bonus of Fraser working.

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," Welsh said. "Sit." He pointed to a chair and waited for Ray to lower himself into it. Ray watched his boss's face, not liking the somber tones.

"What's going on? Somebody die?" he asked, half joking. He shifted uncomfortably in the pause, Welsh fiddling with the cord of his phone. Nearly twenty seconds passed.

"Constable Fraser's been kidnapped," Welsh said in a deadpan.

"What?" Ray asked, feeling the blood drain from his face. He was glad he was sitting down, he might have actually fell from the sudden weakness in his knees. Fraser, kidnapped? It seemed inconceivable that someone could get the better of the Mountie long enough to kidnap him. "What happened?"

"As far as I gather, Fraser was standing sentry outside his building. He was approached by a large man, who yelled in his face and tried to make him move, as I gather many people do," Welsh began. Ray nodded. "But the man pulled a tire iron out from under his jacket, and hit Fraser in the head. Fraser fell; tripped the man as he tried to hit him again. Constable Turnbull was watching from an above window; his shift was about to start. By the time he made it downstairs, a shot had been fired, a van had pulled up with at least three other men. Fraser, from what I could make out of the idiot Mountie, was shot and given a quick beating. We don't have a plate on the van, but we have a description of the men being circulated thru the city's police now. Elaine's down in forensics running the prints we found on the tire iron."

"Why isn't Turnbull looking at mug shots now, then? I mean, everybody likes Fraser. Even the people he arrests like him, if somebody attacked him it was to get to somebody at the Consulate or even to me," Ray explained, rubbing his neck, worried.

"I even like the Mountie," Welsh admitted, his eyes getting spacey. He had a habit of drifting off into odd tangents not relevant to the conversation. "So polite…"

"Why isn't Turnbull looking over mug shots?" Ray repeated, before Welsh could get lost in his recollection of Fraser.

"Shots were fired when Turnbull went to aid, he was clipped and is getting treatment at Chicago Hope," Welsh explained. "I'll bring him in in the morning."

"No, that's bull—," Ray shouted, standing up. "These guys could be halfway to Mexico by then!"

"Why would they take him to Mexico?" Welsh asked. "Use your brain! Go down to where ever that Mountie lives and get his wolf. See if the two of you can find anything. I think this is just as odd as you do, but it's officially Huey and Luey's case unless the feds come down, OK? Anything you find, goes to them."

"Yes, sir." And Ray tore out of the station like a mad man, determined to find his friend.

* * *

Fraser woke as a bright light permeated his eyelids. He opened his eyes, wincing in pain. His head was pounding, the skin of his face feeling tacky from blood from his forehead and nose. He looked down at his leg, noting that his right thigh had been shot for the third time in his life. He coughed, a small amount of sticky red dribbling.

He was tied to the chair—an office chair with wheels—with duct tape around his wrists and rope around his elbows, binding him well. His red surge was gone, replaced by his white undershirt and his blue and yellow pants, though they seemed to have been ruined by blood. Quite a lot of blood, looking at the floor. He was worried about that. His boots were also missing, odd. His legs were suspiciously unbound. He doubted he'd be able to move his right, bullet-filled leg, but perhaps his left could propel him somewhere. He tried to extend it, push off the ground, but his knee screamed, rioting its disapproval; he gasped. Upon closer inspection, he could see the joint was slightly off-kilter, perhaps broken. How long had he been there, bleeding until his leg clotted?

He used his tongue to test the solidness of the clot he could feel on his spilt lip, trying to deduce how long he was unconscious. It was fairly solid, maybe four or five hours old, meaning it was nearing ten o'clock at night. Where was the light coming from then?

He tried to look at the source but found it was simply too bright to make out anything but outlines of furniture. No one else seemed to be there. Ben looked around, craning his neck as far as he could, ignoring the raging headache triggered by his direct look into the light. He supposed he was in an aisle of a warehouse, boxes upon boxes behind and in front of him, the table, chairs and the light to his left, and nothing but a cement wall maybe three meters to his right. It was a decent guess to assume there was an aisle at the cement wall, leading to the rest of the warehouse.

Where were his captors? What did they want? More importantly: could he escape? He wasn't sure the men who took him would've put him in eyesight of the exit, or if they had, the door was on the other side of the light.

If he could get down the other aisle… how would he move himself? Everything hurt, and he wouldn't be able to use his legs too much. His arms were bound too well. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

"Hello?" he called, not hearing the expected echo. Perhaps this wasn't a warehouse then, or it was small and full enough to not have any sort of echo. A basement, perhaps? That would seem logical, there wasn't any windows he could see, and the ceiling wasn't abnormally high. He coughed again, adding to the red streak on the front of his ruined henley. He hoped the blood wasn't that bad of a sign. Maybe just inflammation of his esophagus, not blood in his lungs. He'd be OK, he'd have to be OK.

He waited. Who ever had had him kidnapped would come and speak with him soon. He was certain someone would some soon. He waited roughly half an hour, his internal clock slightly thrown by blood loss and unconsciousness. He tried moving his legs again, and came to the conclusion he wasn't moving anywhere. He began to drift in and out of awareness, exhaustion winning him over.

* * *

A/N: Hello again. I'm hoping you enjoy the story! More to come, may be a tad longer of a wait, I have a show to do Friday with Second City in Toronto! Very excited, I did a lot of the writing for this show. Read and review!


	3. Hello

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributers, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from :this story, no infringment is intended.)**

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_Anonymous Review - My Reply: Thanks for the review! The real Ray was my favorite as well. You are correct, the story takes place in season one. I hate when characters die, I tend to write in episodes (or books in cases) before that happens. Interesting tidbit: This fanfic is set three weeks or so after a Hawk and a Handsaw, tho it's not nessesarily plot-relevant. Keep reading and writing! -Shai_

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Fraser woke as a bright light permeated his eyelids. He opened his eyes, wincing in pain. His head was pounding, the skin of his face feeling tacky from blood from his forehead and nose. He looked down at his leg, noting that his right thigh had been shot for the third time in his life. He coughed, a small amount of sticky red dribbling from his mouth.

He was tied to the chair—an office chair with wheels—with duct tape around his wrists and rope around his elbows, binding him well. His red surge was gone, replaced by his white undershirt and his blue and yellow pants, though they seemed to have been ruined by blood. Quite a lot of blood, he thought, looking at the floor. He was a bit worried about that. His boots were also missing, his legs suspiciously unbound. He doubted he'd be able to move his right, bullet-filled leg, but perhaps his left could propel him somewhere. He tried to extend it, push off the ground, but his knee screamed, rioting its disapproval; he gasped. Upon closer inspection, he could see the joint was slightly off-kilter, perhaps broken. How long had he been there, bleeding until his leg clotted?

He used his tongue to test the solidness of the clot he could feel on his spilt lip, trying to deduce how long he was unconscious. It was fairly solid, maybe four or five hours old, meaning it was nearing ten o'clock at night. Where was the light coming from then?

He tried to look at the source but found it was simply too bright to make out anything but outlines of furniture. No one else seemed to be there. Ben looked around, craning his neck as far as he could, ignoring the raging headache triggered by his direct look into the light. He supposed he was in an aisle of a warehouse, boxes upon boxes behind and in front of him, the table, chairs and the light to his left, and nothing but a cement wall maybe three meters to his right. It was a decent guess to assume there was an aisle at the cement wall, leading to the rest of the warehouse.

Where were his captors? What did they want? More importantly: could he escape? He wasn't sure the men who took him would've put him in eyesight of the exit, or if they had, the door was on the other side of the light.

If he could get down the other aisle… how would he move himself? Everything hurt, and he wouldn't be able to use his legs too much. His arms were bound too well. He couldn't think of anything else to do.

"Hello?" he called, not hearing the expected echo. Perhaps this wasn't a warehouse then, or it was small and full enough to not have any sort of echo. A basement, perhaps? That would seem logical, there weren't any windows he could see, and the ceiling wasn't abnormally high as it was in storage buildings. He coughed again, adding to the red streak on the front of his ruined henley.

He waited. Who ever had had him kidnapped would come and speak with him soon. He was certain someone would some soon. He waited roughly half an hour, his internal clock slightly thrown by blood loss and unconsciousness. He tried moving his legs again, and came to the conclusion he wasn't moving anywhere. He continued to cough up red, and

A loud bang of a door sounded, to his left and behind the light. The sound of footfalls approached, and a silhouette appeared as whoever it was passed the barrier of the light. It was a feminine form he saw as he squinted into the light. The woman came closer and closer, until she stood right in front of him. She stood at such an angle he could now see her face. He felt his eyes widen, shocked.

"Hello, Fraser."

*

Ray sat at his desk, glaring at the door of Welsh's office. The feds were fucking up the investigation. Yet again. The Canadian officials worked well with Huey and Luey and Ray thought the 27th precinct would do better than the feds ever had. There wasn't much evidence at all to go on, however. The tire iron was the only physical evidence at the scene and no discernible prints were available off it. Turnbull saw the men's faces only briefly before rushing to aid and a shoulder wound, and he'd pointed out men Ray knew would love to kill Fraser.

Vince Couto, the man who brought the tire iron and hit Fraser. Ray had Elaine look him up and discovered he was a known accomplice of both Caroline Morgan and Victoria Metcalfe. Ray didn't know which woman was less likely to kill Fraser. Morgan had set out to kill Fraser at least twice before, and Victoria… Ray didn't need to go into the story with Victoria. She'd held him at gunpoint and framed him for murder. She would have killed him, too, if witnesses weren't around.

He tapped his pen anxiously, hoping he'd be able to get some information out of the Lieutenant later. He was Fraser's emergency contact and closest thing to next-of-kin, maybe he could get some information that way. He honestly knew he shouldn't work on the case. He would be useless, worried for Fraser and not seeing clearly. Morgan or Metcalfe… Which would be worse? The phone rang. He pushed Fraser from his mind and lifted his receiver.

"Vecchio," he answered.

"Hello, Detective," a familiar female voice replied. "Miss me?" He dropped his pen, frowning.

"Who is this?" he demanded. A tinny laugh came thru the phone.

"Don't you recognize me, Detective? Fraser certainly did," she said. "I actually hope he doesn't bleed to death before I get to have my fun with him." Ray reached over to his phone and started the record option. The police station had these handy recorders installed into each phone line, so one could tape a conversation if need be. A smart idea, really, tho this was the first time since they installed it a year ago Ray had needed to use it.

"What do you want? Why did you kidnap him?" Ray asked. There had to be a way to get this woman pinned and get Fraser back alive. If he found her, he wouldn't kill her, but only because Fraser would get upset with him if he did. He'd definitely shoot her, in the leg or something, so she'd be OK, before arresting her.

"Why do most people kidnap people?" she remarked. A pause followed and Ray realized that it was an actual question.

"How should I know?" he demanded. "I'm not a psychopath!"

"Neither am I, but I certainly enjoyed watching him bleed," she laughed, before her voice turned hard as steel. "I've spent too much time in jail because of that asshole! If I could kill you too, I would. But killing a cop is a stupid thing to do."

"And killing a Mountie is any better?" he asked. "They'll hunt you to the ends of the earth, you know. I've seen it, they're not kidding when they say that."

"No Mountie in Canada will care a rat's ass if I kill Fraser," she snapped. "You were there. You saw him turn in one of his own. I could kill Fraser and they'd never find me. They'd give it a rest after a few months. I'd practically be as free as I am now."

"What do you want for Fraser's return?" he demanded once more. She laughed.

"I doubt you'll see him again. Good night, Detective."

* * *

A/N: There you go. Eveyone give a round of applause to AgentHumen, who really served me as a driving force. Her PMs made me recall not posting this chapter. High-fives all around to all my reviewers! Thanks to everyone for their support. Feel free to make guesses and offer ideas as to where this is headed, I'm certain you all have an equal clue as I do.


	4. Case

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributers, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from /:this story, no infringment is intended.)**

* * *

Everyone ready for a big fail? I said in the last chapter that this was set after A Hawk and A Handsaw, but I should have said it was set after A Bird in The Hand or The Promise, second season. My bad.

* * *

  
"As you can see," Welsh began after the tape had finished playing for the feds and the Canadians. "The kidnapper didn't identify herself or give us a ransom demand of any sort. If anything, she implied she didn't want anything but the opportunity to torture Fraser."

"What of her accusations of Constable Fraser? She says he turned in a member of the RCMP?" Johnson asked, the dimmer of the two FBI agents. The last two days had been a series of redundant questions. It was ten a.m., Fraser had been kidnapped thirty-four hours ago and no progress had been made.

Huey and Louie had picked up three abandoned warehouses they were going to check out with four hours of the incident. But the feds had arrived before they could go, and now they were practically handcuffed to their desks with regulations preventing action.

"Yes," Inspector Moffat said. "He did. Admittedly, the man he arrested had accepted several bribes from local politicians regarding the out-of-code dam than endangered all the people living in the immediate area, shot Fraser in the leg and had murdered his father. Many of the RCMP officials feel Gerard may not have committed the murder despite his confession and non-circumstantial evidence. Not many people were fans of Fraser before the arrest was made, and no post would have him but Chicago Consulate."

"Why did he have enemies in Canada?" Johnson asked, his partner, Sevier, using headphones to re-listen to the recording.

"He was too good at his job," one of the other Canadians said. "He uncovered crime circles that should really have been discovered by the members at the post before he worked there. It was an embarrassment to quite a few officers and members. He's worked at a total of twenty-nine posts in Canada, and only in Chicago outside of Canada. The shortest stay in a single post was for three and a half weeks, the longest was ten months, aside from his stay in Chicago. He's trained as a marksman and is known for knowledge of erratic facts."

Welsh and the others blinked at the woman, who recited this information as though she was reading from a list, rapidly and without hesitation. "What?" she asked. "I read his file."

"Would he have enemies in Canada who would kidnap him?" Johnson asked. The woman shrugged.

"I wouldn't describe any of the members with a dislike for him as enemies, no," the woman said.

"Except for Victoria Metcalfe," Welsh offered. "She's not RCMP, but she tried to frame Fraser for murder once—he put her in jail."

"She's marked in her file and Constable Fraser's as deceased. Car accident," Moffat dismissed.

"This Metcalfe woman, why come all the way to Chicago to frame a cop? There must have been more than that," Johnson voiced. "No one is that set on revenge,

"They were lovers for a while before she robbed the bank, he pursued her, unaware she was his suspect, saved her life when they were caught in a snowstorm, and proceeded to turn her in with the promise to wait for her to finish her sentence," Moffat said. "According to one of his friends at that post, a Constable Ken Hunt, she refused to see him again, feeling betrayed." Welsh hadn't known the whole story of Victoria, and admittedly that one was brief… But he also knew the Mountie was very uncertain around women. Perhaps he was afraid they would betray him in crime like Victoria. Or maybe he was afraid he'd somehow betray them.

"Quite the history. When she met him in Chicago?"

"She was reported killed in the car accident eight months before that supposed meeting," the Canadian woman explained. "But it is believed Victoria was not driving the car that crashed, her sister was and Victoria identified her sister's body as her own to escape parole restrictions. We since confirmed that the body was not Victoria Metcalfe, but her sister's. Metcalfe framed Fraser for the murder of her accomplice in the original bank heist, and allowed evidence to show he "knew" where that money was hidden all along."

"But Fraser was cleared of all charges and Victoria escaped," Welsh added. "What about Caroline Morgan? She's tried to kill Fraser twice before this, and each time Fraser evaded her and turned her into the authorities were she had five years added to her sentence. She's somehow on parole and hasn't met with her parole officer in two weeks. Location is unknown."

"So you think the Morgan woman did it?" Johnson asked.

"Well, I think Morgan has easier access to the thugs needed to capture and hold Fraser,  
but Victoria has more incentive to do so," Welsh said. "We do have Vecchio and one of our civilian aide, trying to find a vocal match to the recording."

"What's the deal with Vecchio and the Mountie?" Sevier asked, speaking for the first time that day.

"Fraser works with our police force quite often, he's the Consulate's liaison officer and our station is assigned to work with them. Fraser and Ray," Welsh began, "are practically partners—they solve most of their cases together, regardless of who the case was assigned to."

"The Canadians are assigned cases here?" Johnson asked.

"I believe they've only solved one Canadian case," Welsh admitted. "But the two work well together. Vecchio will be devastated if we cannot get a move on and find a lead."

The feds nodded, remotely interested, and the Canadian officials seemed generally unworried.

Welsh sighed; neither parties with real authority seemed even remotely interested in this case. None of the people assigned here knew Fraser as the man he was—they saw him as a Mountie from the remote reaches of Canada, one who turned in cops and lovers alike. Perhaps it painted the picture of coldheartedness, but it was quite the opposite indeed. No one cared more than Fraser. It was merely that he was moral to a fault, that what was right was right and he couldn't see two ways around it. Victoria had robbed a bank. A Mountie was corrupt. The same Mountie tried to kill Fraser and did kill his father. How does someone not turn those people in and work for the law? Sometimes the law should be held over love.


	5. Warehouse

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributers, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from /:this story, no infringment is intended.)**

* * *

Ray listened to the recording for the hundredth time. Fraser would have known within the first ten seconds of the call who was calling him and somehow have deduced where they were from faint background noises. He rewinded to the beginning, pausing there. Hello, Detective. Who would greet him as such? Morgan had always seemed angry when he'd met her, and the mystery woman was certainly angry by the end of the call. At the beginning she was hard and steely, crazily calm. Didn't fit the Morgan he knew. But he knew Victoria too, she had an edge to her that he'd noticed immediately, and it wasn't the edge of the caller. He'd often wondered how Fraser didn't see it with Victoria—the razor sharp blade just below the rose-petal surface, that murderer and criminal waiting to strike. He'd watched her, knowing something was off. But Fraser's level of trust in her made Ray trust her by instinct. That was quite the disaster, quite the heartbreak for Fraser. To see Fraser heartbroken was torture for Ray. Fraser was Ray's best friend, the one who knew what to do and what to say to get the job done. Seeing him listless, having to be the one with the plan… It was hard.

None of that mattered now. Finding Fraser did.

Ray sighed. This had been an unproductive day. He looked into Welsh's office, the blinds up on the door. The Lieutenant was rubbing his forehead frustratedly, the others standing or sitting around, none of the files anyone held open. Each agent had a small, neat navy file with Fraser's personnel file, Victoria's history and Morgan's record. It created a strange contrast from the huge amounts of information on all suspects and others Ray had gathered in the short time before the feds pulled his brakes. Even Huey and Louie, exclusively searching for places someone could hide Fraser had more information on suspects than these supposed best-and-brightest. No one but Welsh and the 27th wanted to solve this case—the Canadians disliked Fraser and his reputation, and the feds couldn't give two shits about some Mountie from the the northern side of Middle-of-Nowhere, Canada. Especially a Mountie who didn't have a family worrying, stressing and frantically pressing for answers.

Just a best friend with no legal standing at all.

He flicked the headphones he'd been using off, deciding to go home, think. The feds had made it all too clear the consequences that would hit him if he came within twelve meters of their leads, so it wasn't as tho he could help here at all. Being so close to it all and yet be so useless just made him anxious.

Maybe he'd drive by those addresses of the abandoned warehouses after he checked on Diefenbaker, see if there was anything suspicious—noises, large white vans, dead Mounties. He stopped himself in his tracks, trying to correct his thinking. Fraser wasn't dead, the idiot feds still had plenty of time to find him, plenty of time to save him.

He'd be fine. He'd be OK.

He looked into Welsh's office, a woman was reading from a file, speaking. That was something, they were using their files now. Marked improvement, going from doing nothing to pretending to accomplish something. Ray looked at his desk, surprised to see he himself had been doing nothing but listening to the recording and thinking since he'd received the call. He didn't even have a case file of something he was supposed to be working on open. He stood, tossing down the pen he'd been nervously tapping.

"Hey, Jack," he said. "Lemme have those werehouse addresses."

"What?" Jack demanded. "Vecchio, I'm worried about Big Red too, but the feds said there's actual jail time riding on this."

"Well, to catch me looking around they'd have to lift their asses off their chairs and actually try something," he remarked. Jack sighed, scribbling down the addresses.

"I'd try the one on 29th Street—it's been used for this sort of thing before. There's a tee shirt manufacturer on the upper floors, but the basement is technically waiting to be leased," Jack said, tapping the address of the 29th St building with his pen, handing the paper to Ray. "Don't get caught."

*

The Mountie was either unconscious or asleep, the light from her blinders bouncing off his bruised cheek beautifully. Every few minutes or so, he would cough, sputtering blood. Part of her felt concern, wanting to fix him and help him and the other, larger, smarter part wanted him to continue to suffer and decline. A huge black bruise rested on his temple, his cheek bore cuts in the shape of Vince's brass knuckles, and she was becoming aware that his leg might start to gangrene soon. Perhaps she should try and get some money out of this, use it to escape after his death. She put her feet up on the table, smiling at the thought of available ransom.

She didn't know why she'd thought this was a good idea, but it had certainly seemed so at the time. Killing Fraser, paying him back for her years on the run, watching him squirm as she acted sweet and terrible around him, seeing him hold in a cry as she pulled at his wounds… yummy. Now that her plan with him was coming to an end, she needed an escape.

The path to the warehouse was actually simple, she couldn't believe the cops hadn't figured it out yet. Perhaps she could simply pick up a car or even a bus out of town, head back home. They clearly weren't too concerned, or the Canadians were handling it. She smiled vindictively. Fraser's good nature worked against him constantly, never for him. Doing the right thing had bought him figurative exile from his home, cost him his few friends and bought him this kidnapping.

He was awake now, and squinting towards her silhouette sitting at the table she'd placed here to do this—watch him. The table had some leftover Chinese food containers sitting on it, no doubt creating odd black shapes for him.

He coughed again, blood dripping form his chin. He honestly looked terrible. Maybe I should let him die, she thought. Not yet, tho. Not quite yet.

* * *

A/N: Anybody care to guess who the Kidnapper is?


	6. Found

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributors, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from this story, no infringement is intended.)**

* * *

Ray pulled left onto 29th Street, watching the numbers on the brownstones flick by. Three twenty six approached, and he slowed the Rivera to a crawl, staring at the faded white paint of the windowless van parked in the narrow alley, several parking tickets attached to the window. He pulled to the side of the road, shutting the door of his car softly, wishing he'd stopped to get Diefenbaker. It was strange enough without Fraser, he wished he at least had the stupid wolf.

He walked up to the van, hand ready to pull out his gun at any moment. He tried the handle of the van, shocked when it slid a bit. He opened it the rest of the way, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the large bloodstain on the floor of the van.

Why would they leave this unlocked? If not stumbled upon by a cop, someone was bound to steal it soon. Ray looked around the alley, trying to find an entrance to the building. He spotted a window that clearly led down to a basement, one that probably didn't open anymore, the amount of rust visible from a meter off.

He knelt, absently marking mentally the stains no doubt on his grey pants now. He looked into the window, looking down at the odd sight below him.

Heavy duty spot lights shined past a cheap folding table, littered with Chinese food containers and newspapers. The tall racks on either side of his view held boxes labelled Cob Shirts. Near the end of the aisle sat Fraser, bloody as it can be and awake—alive! Ray's heart tried to break out of his chest, trying to go to his best friend mere meters away, but so err.

The cement floor all around Fraser was a cakey brown, the colour of dried blood. Even from here, Ray could see large bruises resting on the Mountie's strong cheekbones. Fraser coughed, and Ray started at the site of blood escaping his mouth. That wasn't good. He knew Fraser had been here for ages, how much blood had he lost? He'd been shot and he was coughing up blood, enough to saturate the white tank top he was wearing. Ray could see his red surge, torn, lying just behind the table, hung on a metal staircase.

Fraser snapped his head over towards Ray, shutting his eyes against the glaring light almost half a second after the light hit. Head turned, a deep bruise became visible on his temple, a dangerous place for such an injury. Ray looked at the staircase, wondering why Fraser—

There she was, walking down the stairs, face turned away, having slammed the door to draw Fraser's attention.

She slowly moved toward Fraser, the aura of a sultry killer oozing off her in waves. Ray watched, knowing he wasn't supposed to be there at all, let alone bursting in without a warrant of any sort. She passed the blinders, and Fraser squirmed a bit as he saw her coming to him.

She stood in front of Fraser, leaning over and pressing her hand to a knee, causing Fraser to cry out. Ray could hear the scream faintly, even as the woman's words behind it were silenced by distance and cement. Fraser leaned forward against his bindings, struggling, trying to get away from the pain. Judging by the blood on the floor, it seemed that couldn't be the leg that was shot; what was wrong? Did they break his leg? Ray's stomach twisted, the idea of a broken bone festering under a tortuous hand for days.

Finally, she straightened, letting go of his leg, letting him slump in relief. She leaned in, no weight on Fraser this time at least, her full mouth whispering something unknown to Ray. Fraser closed his eyes and turned his face away from her. She slapped him angrily, her face twisting.

What to do? Ray thought, mind desperate. Go in now and save Fraser, risking jail, or call the Lieutenant, hoping he wouldn't get in trouble for being here, hoping Fraser wouldn't die in the meantime?

His debate came to a quick close when the damned kidnapper drew further back, Fraser's usually-warm eyes following her movements sharply. Her mouth moved, her hand drew out black metal, pointing death at Fraser. Fraser spoke for the first time, panicked words not reaching Ray's ears. Get her to calm down, Fraser, Ray begged, make her calm down.

She stared at Fraser, their eyes locked. She began to lower the gun… The shotgun fired, the boom reaching Ray's ears. Fraser doubled over as much as his bindings would allow, a bullet tearing into his stomach.

"No!" Ray cried out, his hands planting on either side of the narrow window, trying to break thru, help his friend.

The woman tossed the gun down, half shocked she'd actually done it. Fraser stayed slumped and Ray hoped to God he wasn't dead. She turned, beginning to rush out, and Ray pulled away from the window, turning around and wondering where to hide. No doubt that damn bitch was going to make her getaway now, get out before the feds found something, finally moving in on the obvious trail to the brownstone.

He moved to the street, hurrying over to the next alley, walking down it just as he heard a car engine sputter to life. Pulling out his cell, he dialed the Lieutenant's office.

"Lieutenant Welsh," Welsh answered.

"It's Vecchio," he said quietly, waiting for the van to pass. "I found him."

"Checking out that noise complaint we received on that building, I assume?" the Lieutenant asked, his voice lightly insinuating that this was exactly why Ray was at the building at all.

"Yeah, exactly," Vecchio agreed, thankful the Lieutenant knew exactly how to keep him out of trouble, especially since the feds probably wouldn't make good on threats if it was easier to not.

"And the source of the noise?"

"Just left, sir," he said, as the white, windowless van passed, the would-be killer in the front seat. "But Fraser's in the basement still, just been shot."

"I'll send you back-up and an ambulance," Welsh said, the click of the receiver being placed down urging Ray out of his hiding spot as he heard the van's engine fade into the distance, rushing back to the building he needed. He rounded to the front entrance, a Cob Shirts sign atop a FOR LEASE sign. He tugged on the door handle, hoping it would be open. It opened with ease.

Ray yanked the metal door marked No Admittance open, rushing down the metal staircase he saw thru the window. He rushed past the table and the bright lights, making it to his best friend.

Please don't be dead, he prayed, dropping to his knees in front of the still Mountie.

*

A/N: Sorry for the wait. RL, you know how it is.


	7. Waiting

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributors, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from this story, no infringement is intended.)**

* * *

Ray dropped to his knees in front of Fraser, just in time for his friend to vomit blood all over his shoulder. He looked with disgust at the red staining him, nearly losing his own lunch at the smell.

"Fraser?" he questioned, hoping there'd be an answer, hoping he was conscious… alive. "Fraser, buddy, come on, talk to me." He pushed up on Fraser's shoulder, righting him as much as he could in the bindings.

"Ray?" a hoarse voice asked. Fraser's head fell back listlessly, holding up his own head apparently too difficult a task for Fraser at the moment.

"Yeah, it's me," Ray said, relief staining his voice. Alive and semi-lucid, it seemed.

"I got shot, Ray," he said. His voice sounded distant, faint and unsure. "She shot me."

"Yeah, but she's gone now, it's over," Ray promised. He was certain he heard sirens in the distance. "I'm going to get you out of here, OK? Ambulance is on the way."

"Careful of my knee, it's broken, I think," Fraser said as Ray pulled at his bindings. Why use rope and duct tape? Why not one or the other? Ray found the convoluted knot holding Fraser's wrists down, and sighed. He'd never figure that one out. Fraser either coughed or gagged, but an amount of blood began dribbling from his chin once more. Ray rose up on his knees a bit as he pulled Fraser forward, supporting the weight on his bloody shoulder and making sure the red could escape his mouth. He couldn't let Fraser asphyxiate when he was so close to getting out. It finally stuck him, flooding his very bones with relief: Fraser was found.

"Ray?" he questioned, his voice nearly inaudible.

"Yeah, it's me," he repeated. "You still with me, Fraser?"

"Victoria shot me," he said. "I never thought she'd really hurt me." Ray patted a shoulder awkwardly. What to say in a situation like this?

"Yeah, buddy, I know," he said. "The ambulance will be here soon, it's over, you're safe."

"She hates me, I'm pretty sure she does," Fraser said vaguely. Ray couldn't think of a comfort.

The metal door burst open, and he heard an unfamiliar voice shout, "They're in the basement!" Ray turned to the voice, forgetting the bright lights in that direction and nearly blinding himself on them. Quickly, he found himself pulled from Fraser by a EMT.

"You alright, sir?" she asked, flashing a pen light she'd pulled out of nowhere into Ray's eyes and intensifying the sun spots that danced in his vision.

"I'm fine, Fraser's the one who needs help," he said, gesturing helplessly to his friend as a male EMT begin inspecting the stomach wound, most pressing as blood seeped out of it.

"If you've hit your head you may not know—"

"I know I haven't hit my head, but that man's been shot twice! Wanna help him out?" Ray snapped, pulling away from her as she tried to lead him away. She sighed and turned, moving over to Fraser.

"He's going to be going into hypervolemic shock, if he's not already," the man said, still holding a large amount of red gauze to Fraser's abdomen. "Cut the ropes, we'll use the back board to carry him to the ambulance." Ray watched as they tried to not jostle his wounds, stop the bleeding of his belly and get him onto the backboard at the same time. But as he found himself kept out of the ambulance by an emergency bleed that needed lots of room for the EMTs to move about, he found the cold feeling of worry that had been in the pit of his stomach since Fraser had first been taken intensify. Now, more than ever, what happened to Fraser was out of his control.

Now, it was up to Fraser to hold on.

Ray paced. The hallway was empty, the sound of hurried footsteps, frantic beeping and muffled voices coming thru the door to the NO ADMITTANCE hallway from which he'd been barred. Fraser had been taken thru those doors, and the last thing he'd seen before the door swung shut was a nurse's panicked words of loosing a pulse, and another woman—nurse or doctor, he couldn't tell—swinging herself onto the gurney to perform CPR as they hurried to an OR. He'd been in the hospital now for nearly three hours, the other detectives sitting in the waiting room behind him.

"Come on, Vecchio," Welsh said softly. "Sit down. You're wearing out the floor wax." Ray looked down at his feet, noticing the floor was scuffed heavily where he had been pacing. "He'll be OK."

"Yeah," Ray agreed weakly. He sunk into a hard plastic chair, his feet thanking him for a respite. It wasn't for too long however, he began bouncing his leg on the ball of his foot nervously, sinking his balding head into cupped hands.

He sat like that for what felt like hours, but was probably mere minutes. Justice had always meant so much to him, and he knew, now more than ever, that it was very likely Victoria would get away, yet again. At least he hadn't shot Fraser this time. Yeah, whispered a voice inside his mind, you simply watched it happen, not trying to help.

I got him out, Ray replied halfheartedly. I saved him from that basement at least. But getting him out wasn't enough, Ray knew, simply saving him would never be enough. He should have stopped it somehow, or at least removed the possibility of it happening again—put Victoria behind bars or in the ground with lead in the back of her beautiful head.

"Ray!" a familiar voice called. He raised his head, looking to the voice. Frannie was hurrying over, her eyes wet and red. Ray sighed as he stood, moving towards her and accepting her anxious embrace. "Any word? Is he OK? What happened?"

"He's been shot twice, Frannie," he answered as she moved back, rubbing his arms nervously. "I think his knee was broken, or his leg, something. He's vomiting blood… looks something awful." He trailed off, glancing toward the doors helplessly.

*

Short, I know, but I have finals this week. Sorry for the wait. Conclusion next chapter, I think.


	8. Closure

**(Disclaimer: due South belongs to its creators, distributors, and other people/investors/companies affiliated with it and it's original/secondary airings. No profit is made from this story, no infringement is intended.)**

* * *

Ray watched Fraser sleeping thru the glass wall of the ICU. He'd survived surgery where they'd removed bullets and repaired all the damage they could in his femur. The bone had been badly broken and the doctors had repaired the it precariously. Ray watched as a nurse check the flow of the oxygen to the mask secured to his friend's face. Aside from thick bruises littering his body, gauze was wrapped round the bullet wound in his leg, the other in a cast up to his mid-thigh. A gauze pad was secured just over the bottom of Fraser's ribcage, no doubt where Victoria had shot him.

"He was in stage four hypovolaemic shock when he was brought in—" the doctor began.

"I don't know what that means, doc," Ray said, not taking his eyes off Fraser to look at the aging doctor in charge of the Mountie's case.

"Stage four hypovolaemia is classified as a nearly fifty percent blood loss, tachycardia and pronounced tachypnea, or, um, fast heart rate and quick shallow breathing. Most loose consciousness or at the very least are semi-lucid," the doctor explained. "With blood transfusions, he stabilized enough to withstand three invasive surgeries, two for bullet wounds and one for a compacted spiral fracture in his femur. But… Recovery will be a long road. It's rare we have someone who had lost so much blood survive without considering the muscle, bone and nerve damage, Mr Fraser is very lucky."

"Constable Fraser," Ray corrected automatically. He looked over at the doctor. "RCMP. Why the oxygen? Is the tacky-breathing gone?"

"Yes, the tachypnea was resolved when we transfused blood, but he's still not breathing well," he explained. "The second bullet fired pierced his diaphragm, causing significant damage to his breathing patterns and as a result, his O2 sats. The wound to his leg is still festering and bleeding enough to be cause for concern. If he lives the next few days, we'll talk then about rehabilitation." The doctor began to leave and Ray spun, following.

"What do you mean 'if'? I thought he pulled thru the surgery, he's Superman," Ray said, holding the doctor's elbow to stop him.

"Well, Superman needs to wait awhile before he puts on his cape," the doctor replied. "He was breathing in toxins in that basement, his wounds are infected. If he heals from the muscle and nerve damage, beats the infection and manages to stop needing blood every half hour," the doctor trailed off, shrugging. "It's all up the air, but it's all we can do. You can visit now, but I'm not sure if he's conscious." With that, the doctor left Ray in the hallway.

*  
"This is a bad idea," Ray said, looking over at Fraser from where they had parked on a snowy street. Fraser looked over at his friend quietly, waiting for Ray to continue. Victoria had been arrested nearly three weeks ago, running a red light only twelve miles outside of Chicago city limits, and Ray had ensured she stayed in jail. The arresting officer—a rookie—was pleased his arrest had been of one of the high-profile warrants, gaining him respect of his Chicago-suburb officers.

"She's going to trail next week, you don't need to see her now," Ray said. "She'll say something to mess with your head, you'll—"

"Get hurt again?" Fraser put in. Ray sighed quietly. "I appreciate your concern, Ray, but, I need to see her before the trail. I need to know…" he trailed off, not sure how to explain it. His heart still fluttered with excitement at the thought of Victoria, remembering the love the two had. His stomach reeled remembering the sickening agony of the kidnapping, of turning her in. His body remembered both blinding pain and uncurbed ecstasy shared with her. His head didn't know what to do—unable to reconcile the pain, physical and emotional, at her hands with the good and great memories. It seemed impossible, an alternate reality, for someone to be both.

"You need closure. You need to hear her say goodbye," Ray offered, staring out the windshield to avoid Fraser's eyes.

"I don't think I need goodbye," Fraser said, almost to himself. "I want her to say she hates me. I want this to be over." Ray opened his mouth to respond, gave up, and walked around the car to the trunk, pulling out the wheelchair Fraser was confined to until one of his legs was declared healthy enough to weight bear. Ray helped him into the chair and wheeled him thru the dirty snow into the jail.

Only twenty minutes later, Ray left him in the small visitation room, a mere sheet of glass and a thin wall separating him from where Victoria would be in a few minutes. Ray could be seen lurking on the other side of the visitation room door, and Fraser saw he was clearly nervous on his behalf.

A harsh metallic buzz drew his attention to the other door. She was dressed in the traditional jail uniform, her beautiful black hair pulled back into a thick, tight braid. Silver, long-chained cuffs adorned her wrists as a disinterested guard plopped her down in the chair and left the room, standing on the other side of the glass wall on the prisoners' side. She picked up the phone, cradling it to her ear as he stared for a full fifteen seconds. He picked up the receiver, half longing and half dreading to hear her voice again.

"When they told me I had a visitor, I figured it be a lawyer, telling me insanity is the best plea," she said to fill the silence.

"I don't think you're insane," Fraser offered, knowing it was largely meaningless.

"You of all people should, Ben," she said, softly, tugging on a loose curl. "I tried to kill you. Twice." A clear apologetic tone crept into her voice, and he glared. "You're right. I have no right to be sorry. I know what I did."

"Did you mean to shoot me?" he demanded. She lowered her gaze.

"I… I don't know. I wanted to, but then I thought you had talked me out of it… I don't know if it was an accident… I want to believe it was, but I obviously didn't kill you," she said. "How bad were you?"

"I almost lost my leg," he told her. She shifted in the hard plastic chair, her gorgeous face contorting in sympathy or some other emotion he didn't see.

"The one Vince shot?" she asked. He nodded. "And when I shot you?"

"I almost died of blood-loss," he said. "Ray found me not too long after you left. I got out of hospital only yesterday." Silence hung in the room for a few moments. "Why did you kidnap me?"

"Revenge," she said simply. "You put me in jail, and then set me up when I got out. I lost my diamonds, my money… I won't lie, I wanted you dead." She laughed sadly. "But like always, you talked your sweet little mouth off and convinced me I love you."

"Do you love me?" he asked. She stared, her eyes cold. Her face was blank. "Victoria," he whispered, desperate. "Don't lie to me now, please."

"I hate you more than I love you, Fraser. You sent me to jail, you wasted my life," she sneered. "You claimed to love me, you put me in jail and then set me up!"

"I let you down when put you in jail, " he said, unaware of the tears glistening in his eyes, "but you knew what you were doing when you drove the car in the robbery. But you came to Chicago with the intention of setting me up, killing me and my friend. You knew what you were doing. You shot my wolf! And when you kidnapped me… You would've let me bleed to death in that warehouse, Victoria. I put you in jail, but I was also willing to spend the rest of my life making it up to you, even if I never did."

"You can't make up for it," she said.

"What do you need to make up for?" he asked. "You've done wrong to me too, even if I love you enough it doesn't matter. I'll keep loving you."

"I did nothing you didn't walk into, Fraser," she said, steel in her voice. A vindictive tone he'd never heard before crept into her voice. "you deserve everything that happened."

"I did the right thing ten years ago," he said. "It hurt me and you, but it was right."

"I hate you, Fraser," she said. "You're not worth my time." She slammed down the receiver and stood. The metallic buzz sounded and the guard entered, grabbing her elbow and leading her out. She didn't break eye contact with him until the guard slammed the door behind them.

"Fraser," a voice said. Fraser looked up, genuinely surprised to see Ray standing there. He hung up the phone, wiping his face with a hand. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I'll be fine."


End file.
